


and they call it lonesome town (where the broken hearts stay)

by far2late



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alexis | Quackity Angst, Alexis | Quackity-centric, Angst, Arguing, Blindness, Crying, Dadza, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Demigods, Family Feels, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insane Wilbur Soot, Magic, Mentioned Toby Smith | Tubbo, Muteness, Nightmares, Other, Panic Attacks, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Tags will be updated, Tommyinnit - mentioned - Freeform, Twelve Gods of Olympus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Villain Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Violence, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wings, philza minecraft, sleepy bois inc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:46:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27359758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/far2late/pseuds/far2late
Summary: "Faintly, Quackity wondered if it would be better to lie down and let himself succumb to his wounds. Everything was so tiring, and his eyes had never stung more. Even the tears that ran down his were cheeks burning. Was there any point in living if the pain of surviving was more than the prosperity at being able to say you lived another day?His mind went back to Tubbo, and he began to struggle to stand up once more."orsixteen year old quackity is left with the aftermaths of the festival.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Dave | Technoblade, Alexis | Quackity & Phil Watson, Alexis | Quackity & Wilbur Soot, Dave | Technoblade & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 310





	and they call it lonesome town (where the broken hearts stay)

( When Quackity first got to Manberg, there were few allies that he could properly trust. The country was confusing, riddled with buildings he doesn’t understand and people who were too loud and too new to him. The Tournaments still laid fresh in the back of his mind, despite the three years that had passed since. There’s little that he can let go from when he was thirteen, those things especially. 

When Schlatt came around, it was like a breath of fresh air in the sense that there was someone who understood him. There was someone who had decided he was worthy of their time and didn’t want to immediately write him off or tell him that he was too young or too stupid to even try and live past his failure in the Tournaments. He never even made fun of the younger’s wings, which were more duck-like than those of an eagle. His name hadn’t helped, but he would stand by the fact that he was an eagle, not a duck.   
  
His life felt like a bad play for a couple of months, in the sense that it was cheesy and happy in a way he never deserved to be. His past is left behind him in the presence of Schlatt’s warm words and kind eyes that offer quips and wisdom that left him hopeful for the first time in a very, very long time. 

Quackity barely noticed when Schlatt had gotten bad, though it should have been obvious if he was watching from an outsider's perspective as the others had been. He had never met the citizens of Manberg formally before, but he could feel their pitying glances on his back like it was a target and their arrows were cutting glares that left him slumping over and hiding face. 

He never considered they’d care about him, not when they had their own sixteen-year-old war hero pulled from the ashes of anarchy to raise a country that had been unfairly stolen. Schlatt was the only one who cared for him, after all. It’d be a stretch to suggest that there was anyone else in the world that would even begin to share the same care for him that the older man did. 

The bruises were a byproduct of love, and everything had its price. If his payment was harsher, it was only because he hadn’t paid in so long that his heart was parched and his mind was clouded with want for anything close to affection. 

His ignorance of Schlatt’s behaviour only served to lead him to his own destruction, weakening under harsh words that berated him constantly and tight grips that left purple curling around his wrists that didn’t fade for weeks on end. He never remembered Niki’s reactions that well, only that they were angry, but he could faintly remember that she had given him an extra pastry from her bakery at one point; after Schlatt had slowly stopped taxing her as much. He thought that she should be glad he went easier on her, and when he repeated it to her, he was greeted with a sad smile rather than the explosive anger that he was used to. 

He was never quite sure how to respond to it, and it scared him at the time. He didn’t go back to the bakery anymore.

When Wilbur detonated Manberg, there was nothing to express the painful crumbling of his heart in his chest as his mentor was found in smithereens, Tubbo trapped on stage in a prison that had sealed his fate. He took a dive bomb off the stage at the instruction of Schlatt, who whipped something out of his coat that Quackity couldn’t take note of. Every bad play had a second act, where things go wrong. The guy breaks up with the girl, the hero gets gravely injured, the princess gets captured. 

Quackity wondered if he would get the third act as explosions rock the podium and send him flying. )

… 

The festival was a disaster. 

Quackity’s first waking thought is along those lines, despite his little memory of the event itself. The most memorable part was at the very end, so there was little to focus on besides that. It burnt at the forefront of his mind, even if he had just awoken. What was also hard to ignore was the large piece of debris that had been pinning him down at the foot of the podium, leaving him aching and sore with a leg that had mostly gone numb. He blinked to life slowly, a new thing to take into account as he did so.

One side of his vision was completely clouded, and he found it easier to keep the eye shut rather than risk opening it too far. Something was unnerving about that, but the sixteen-year-old didn’t want to risk getting off-track while his mind was still at its peak; there was only so long before the human brain started getting affected by depletion of oxygen, and going by the way his leg hadn’t felt warm in the past five minutes, he wasn’t going to risk it. His wings were folded awkwardly under his back, but shifting them slightly left him almost gasping out for an extra breath, eyes widening unknowingly.

He grunted as he tried to lift himself up, pushing through the minute bits of gravel and stone that had been showered over him, and lifted his head as far as he could. The vision he had in his right eye was barely enough for him to see where anything else was, let alone if there were any survivors amid the stands. 

He faintly recalled that Schlatt and Tubbo had been at the forefront of the stage, taking the brunt of the damage. Quackity wasn’t sure how he had ended up anywhere near consciousness, but he wasn’t going to complain now that he had been spared from such a seismic event. 

His eyes wandered over the ground beneath him, and with a sinking sense of dread that coats his throat with bile and fills his stomach with vomit, he spots broken glass and pink liquid that dotted the shards and sank into the ground slowly. His eyes flick to his chest; splattered with pink where the ghost of an ache laid. Pieces of the puzzle clicked into his mind and he coughed, turning over to gag harshly over another piece of debris. This one is red, he noted absently. Maybe Tubbo painted it. 

The reminder of the boy his age was enough to make him shudder. The smell that followed immediately afterwards, as though it were planned, is something that doesn’t surprise him as much as it should; the Tournaments are proving to have desensitized him to many things that had come as an after-effect to the explosion. His thoughts flicked over blues and kind smiles and sweaters that appeared with swords jabbed through their abdomens, leaving nothing but blood and tar in its wake. Quackity knew what death smelled like, and had for a long time. 

He stubbornly didn’t look towards the podium. There was nothing left for him there. 

If he focused hard enough, he could hear something past the crackle of fire and rubble that had slowly tumbled down the sides of buildings that had been caught in the crossfire. He could hear faint sounds of trickling water, which he assumed was from the dunk tank. 

Unbidden, a memory of Tubbo and Quackity setting up the tank flashed across the forefront of his mind. The smiles they had both worn were the most prevalent detail, almost highlighted in a mocking way to further build his dread of the inevitable. There wasn’t anything that could be said to help him, and no one there to save him, either. 

Faintly, Quackity wondered if it would be better to lie down and let himself succumb to his wounds. Everything was so tiring, and his eyes had never stung more. Even the tears that ran down his cheeks burning. Was there any point in living if the pain of surviving was more than the prosperity at being able to say you lived another day?

His mind went back to Tubbo, and he began to struggle to stand up once more. 

The stark silence of the festival’s aftermath was only dotted by his inconsistent pants, pushing the debris at his leg and eventually shoving it off. Quackity could feel how shredded his hands were, the sting of gravel dribbling into the small cuts of his hand and dirtying the wounds further. His leg was still exceedingly numb, though the blood that soaked the bottom half of his pants had him doubting that he wasn’t injured. 

His eyes stung with tears that had steadily started to fall, unable to stifle them in the face of the destruction all around him. Quackity dragged himself away from the foot of the podium, fingernails ripping under the stone and dirt and blood building upon his fingers. His wings dragged on the debris uselessly, red-stained feathers getting caught on rocks and ripped off in the process. The tears that blurred his vision burned his left eye until it felt like it would be better to rip it out of its socket.

“Is- Is anyone,” Quackity hiccuped, cries punctuating his cries minutely. “Is anyone there?” He staggered to a stop, slumping against the ground as he screwed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. 

“Someone!” He shouted, turning to his side to face upwards. He ignored the pain in his wings, giving up on trying to keep them intact in favour of getting anyone’s attention. “Anyone?!” Quackity panted, whimpering slightly as his eyesight became blurry. He could faintly register the blood dripping from his left eye and rolled down his face, staining his face further. He could feel the grime building upon his face as well, dust and dirt and mud leaving him filthy. 

“Please,” His voice cracked on the last word, leaving him to break down into sobs as he clutched the front of his shirt tightly, attempting to sit up and succeeding if only to end up slumped over his lap again. His shoulders shook harshly and his gasping breaths were painful, screams slowly mixing in as he shoved a fist against his mouth, teeth pressing down on his knuckles and splitting them even more harshly. 

Through his cries and sorrows, the faint flapping of wings had jutted through the noise, leaving him to look up through blurry eyes that had given him no help. After squinting, he could barely make out a figure overhead of him, seemingly searching for something. 

At this point in time, Quackity couldn’t care less whether the figure was friendly or not; any end to this pain would be better than trying to live through it a moment longer. Whether the figure helped him or murdered him, he would be thankful for all time, in Elysium or in the man’s debt alike. Quackity took in a deep, whistling breath, grating his throat as he did so.

“Help!” He screamed, eyes shutting as he splayed his broken, dirtied wings out to get the figure’s attention in any way he knew how. “Please!” 

Quackity slumped over once more, flopping to his side as his energy ran out, leaving him gasping for breath and with a woozy head. In an act of sudden realization, he realized that he should have put a tourniquet on his leg to staunch the bleeding. It had slipped his mind, and the numbness hadn’t helped to remind him, either. 

“Fuck,” He gasped, voice coming out almost hissed out of the lack of air he was gathering within his lungs. Quackity shook his wings out weakly, instinctively fluttering as they fought to get him somewhere safe. 

_Didn’t they realize yet?_ Quackity thought hysterically. _No where was safe now. Nothing and no one and nowhere and never. He would never be safe again._

His fight to stay conscious was one that was slowly being lost, whether it was Quackity’s fault for barely trying or the blood loss getting to him. It was a sad sight, he could imagine. The sight of a sixteen-year-old’s broken, curled up body slowly dying, magic flicker from the area as it fought to stay attached to his soul. Maybe if his spirit wasn’t so strong, he would be dead by now. 

He couldn’t find it in himself to figure out whether that would be a good thing or not. 

As his vision flickered in and out of consciousness, he could hear the beating of wings grow closer, and he could have sworn there was a pair of footsteps that followed before he passed out, the pain fading into comforting inky black. 

… 

Phil was an ancient being, one who’s learned to manipulate the magic that flowed naturally through the overworld and bending it to his will in a manner that only skilled sorcerers could wish to match throughout their apprenticeships under the many witches that dotted the world. Phil was never focused amongst potions, anyway, so their teachings wouldn’t be as useful as he thought they intended them to be. 

This was something that couldn’t be taught as easily as brewing potions or repeating words back to someone, this was something intimate between Hecate and her children, whispered words following him as he explored the world for the first time, only growing louder as he continued his adventure on shaky, new legs. 

Phil found his solace in the silence once Hecate had deemed him ready to go off on his own, and flourish did he in the embrace of the quiet that he had forgotten had existed for five years of his life. He assumed that the rest of his life would be spent in this manner, save for the odd mage or two that would come to him and ask him about how he came to prowess. 

He was proven wrong shortly after, and he couldn’t find it in himself to be upset about it. 

The thing about magic was that it was fragile when it came to auras and feelings that it would send out, as the most explosive of emotions would manipulate it into something jaded. A yellow aura could snap to a red one in an instant, and vice versa. The crossing of magic auras was something common and often served as a mild annoyance rather than something that had been seen as uncouth and insulting. 

When a flood of purple, bright and jaded and sharp had stabbed Phil’s own strings and slivers of magic, he knew he couldn’t ignore it. His feet took him to the edges of his lands, leading him to a hunched over figure under a birch tree that had looked to be burrowing into the ground in an attempt to escape whatever had been chasing him. 

Phil put a hand on his shoulder, gaining a full-bodied flinch and a missed swipe from an iron sword in the process. The wide, panicked eyes of the teenager that had greeted him had his heart twisting in his chest. He didn’t think he quite understood loneliness until that day, and an invitation was extended to the pink-haired figure. 

His next excursion was the last, stumbling across a small town on his search for a certain breed of mushroom. He stumbled across the teen and the child simultaneously. The younger was the one who was armed this time around, and the older had a wary aura that had been warding off strangers. It was weak, at best, and Phil could tell he had been learning slowly, or teaching himself. 

A couple of conversations over a few weeks followed, and he returned home with two new proteges that he swore he’d protect with his life. 

There was little that Phil was willing to do when his eldest had first told him he wanted to leave, nearly half a decade after arriving at his borders. He knew that he held no malicious intent behind it, nor did he want to hurt Phil with the words. He was simply growing into bigger boots, falling into the path pre-laid for him by Ares himself, arming himself with a sword of diamonds from the deepest of caves and a blood-red cape that suggested war and violence that he was familiar with. 

Phil was happy to hear the establishment of the Antarctic Empire only a year later, knowing he had succeeded in his endeavours. 

His other two proteges had left almost two years afterwards, promising that they’d build a kingdom that Phil would be proud of. He was confident enough in the older’s ability with magic that he trusted him to protect the younger. Both were excited, though the older was hesitant to leave. There were things he hadn’t told Phil, of course, and the man couldn’t fault him for it. 

He wondered idly if those things would come back to haunt him in the future. 

Phil trusted his proteges. They had made names for themselves over a few years, tales far and wide spreading of their prowess and eventually linking them back to Phil, though not to each other as of yet. He was sure that they wouldn’t disappoint him; it was impossible, really. 

When the letter had first come, Phil had wanted to believe it was something of a terrible, horrible joke that had never meant to be sent in the first place. Yet he knew that this was something far more serious than a practical joke that could be brushed off in favour of ignorance to spare his own soul of hurt. 

His youngest had sounded so vulnerable in the writing, tears dotting the words and smearing ink that had been written hurriedly. Phil had made up his mind to leave almost immediately after he had received the message. There was hope, he told himself repeatedly, wings beating rhythmically as he travelled over the skies. There was hope. 

He was too late when he had arrived, finding the smoking remains of rubble and fire in a crater at the center of his proteges’ land; it was an awful sight to see, and the bodies were too numerous to be put to rest immediately. Phil could feel the lingering aura of familiar pain, tinged a dark red in comparison to the pale lilac that usually stained magic threads of luminescent regrets. His heart sank in his chest, and he continued onwards in his search. 

Tommy was the first one he had found, and he couldn’t stop himself from gasping quietly. His body lay broken on the podium that the explosion was centred around. He was reaching towards a yellow concrete lump of debris on the stage that Phil could smell the death reeking off of. He cradled Tommy’s head in his hands, pushing back outgrown, dirtied blond hair in favour of whispering blessing into his forehead and letting tears slip from his eyes quietly. 

He couldn’t abandon the boy, and he couldn’t abandon his search for survivors, so he gently picked the corpse up, taking him over to the edge of the boulevard and left his body lying on the roof of a building close by. Phil couldn’t stand to look at his body any longer, shaking his head as he forced away every memory and piece of the younger that he had cherished throughout his life. 

There was time to mourn later. There were responsibilities to attend to. 

Techno was nowhere to be found, but the feeling that his energy had given off left its scent on the land, in every space he visited. Even a broken dunk tank had brought back the feeling of fairy sprites tickling his wings as he passed by it. Phil hadn’t been sure that he would be able to handle another one of them dying, so he was glad the sour of death hadn’t tainted those tendrils. 

After surveying the land loosely for a few more minutes, he was ready to leave, wings beating as he threw himself off the tower he had climbed up to. The wind whistled in his ears and he went lower and lower to find the building he had left Tommy on, only to hear cries of someone who sounded alive, albeit in a terrible position. The wings that had been spread to grab his attention did their job, the man swooping down to follow the screaming. 

He was only a few feet from the end of the podium, blood dragging behind him from his legs and wings as he finally collapsed. An examination of his face led to a similar conclusion, though there was healing magic binding his chest closed, centred around his heart and ribs. Phil could only assume it was a splash potion that had saved his life in the end, mending his broken ribs and stitching up what should have been a punctured lung. 

Phil knew that he couldn’t leave the child behind. He wasn’t so cruel to let him perish to his own wounds, nor would he let Hades claim his soul under his care, either. Hecate had taught him too much for him to throw it away under the guise of not caring enough to bother with using the power he had been gifted to heal as he had been instructed. 

With a quiet sigh, he carefully picked up the teen in his arms, holding him in a delicate position so he wouldn’t end up hurting him more inadvertently. There was something he could do to carry both To- His youngest protege and this teenager home, he just needed to find something in general. Phil flew over to the rooftop he had situated himself upon and set the teen down gently, laying him down on his stomach so that his wings wouldn’t be immediately crumpled under the weight of his upper body; not that it weighed much. 

Phil stopped for a moment, taking a minute for himself for the first time in three days of travelling to let his gaze fall over his youngest protege- His Tommy. The younger’s eyes were shut gently, and it was almost easy to imagine him sleeping if not for the streak of blood that followed his hairline and dripped down his nose and mouth. 

There was so much life that would burst through him at all times, Phil found when he had first taken Tommy in. After he had adapted to the new environment, he found that there was little that he could do to stop the boy from rushing at everything within the borders of his land and was insistent on wanting to pet every mob he came across, friendly or not. 

There were spots in time where Phil would find himself alone with his protege, and he would take the time to speak to him where his roommates wouldn’t hear. On one occasion, he remembered that the younger confessed to him that he wanted to grow up to be like Techno, strong and fierce and violent in justifiable ways. Phil was aware of this, of course, but it was the addition of Tommy’s mumble- _I want to protect him the way he protects us_ \- that had him surprised. 

Tommy was different from most children his age, and such was a testament to his morals that were incredibly hard to shake. He was a natural-born hero, a leader in spirit and an aura that was tinged gold almost permanently despite the lack of magic that wrapped the tendrils he had exuded so greatly. 

Wilbur was always starstruck when it came to examining auras for the first time, and found Tommy’s to be easily drawn to. Phil assumed it was how he managed to find himself with friends almost everywhere he went. It was why Phil knew he would be fine no matter where he went, as long as he had Wilbur by his side and his natural charisma to protect him. 

What was it about this accursed land that had taken all his children from him at once? 

Tommy, dead. Techno, gone with the winds and whispers of Ares in his ears and blood staining nether-bound tools that slowly corrupted his soul. Wilbur, missing and holding the blame for what had happened. His Wilbur, turning to the last means he could think of in desperation and paranoia that wouldn’t leave him. 

Where had he gone wrong? Where had Hecate’s teachings led him astray, and was there anything that he could do? Why was he the one accursed to watch his sons tear themselves apart for people who held them close to their chests like marionettes in a play for their amusement? Did the Gods hate him so, cursing him to be alone for the years that would follow? 

Tommy didn’t deserve a fate this cruel, Phil thought, emotion brimming in his eyes. 

With a heavy heart, Phil took a seat next to his youngest, pulled his head into his lap, and let himself cry. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> im not gonna lie; i had this idea while i was replying to someones comment on my quackity one shot that had been requested. i was inspired by the story "what world have we inherited" as well, by an anonymous user, but i suggest u check it out! its centred around the concept of the festival being blown up by wilbur, and techno and tommy are some of the only people to come away from it. 
> 
> i may or may not be obsessed with aging down characters, but i think that my changes are relevant to the story rather than just for cosmetics. 
> 
> i hope that you'll enjoy this story and that u check out some of my others! thanks for clicking on this, please comment what u think so far :)


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